All Through the Night
by Gramarye
Summary: A sleepless January night allows Will's guilt and anger over his mother's injury to emerge. Very dark.


A short vignette, perhaps a missing scene from The Dark Is Rising.   
This would take place immediately after the events of the second  
book, sometime early on a cold January morning. Perhaps the holiday  
season has brought The Dark Is Rising sequence and Will Stanton to  
the front of my mind...not that I have a problem with it, of course.  
I hope you enjoy this sad little story.  
  
(Revised from the first publishing--Mrs. Stanton suffered a sprain,   
not a broken leg as I had originally thought. Yet another reason to   
always refer to the source to get the details right.)  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
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All Through the Night  
By: Gramarye  
  
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Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant   
Ar hyd y nos.   
Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant   
Ar hyd y nos.   
Golau arall yw tywyllwch,   
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch,   
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch   
Ar hyd y nos.  
  
(translation)  
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee.  
All through the night.  
Guardian angels God will lend thee  
All through the night.  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,  
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping.   
God his loving vigil keeping,   
All through the night.  
  
--"All Through the Night", traditional Welsh lullaby  
(Welsh lyrics by John Ceiriog Hughes,  
English lyrics by Harold Boulton)  
  
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Mrs. Stanton was having a sleepless night on the old sofa in the   
family room.   
  
Climbing the rickety stairs of the Vicarage was all but impossible  
with her injured leg, yet she had cheerfully refused all offers of  
help from her large family in favour of a makeshift bed on the sofa.   
No amount of cajoling or bullying, even from her husband, would  
persuade her to go upstairs and get more comfortable. So the family,  
grumbling at her obstinate behaviour, had left her with as many  
pillows and blankets and cushions as they could find, and went to bed  
themselves.  
  
Will, creeping down the chilly stairs later that night, knew she  
would still be awake. The sprain she had suffered had been a bad one,  
and despite all the reassurances of Doctor Armstrong and her calm  
outward demeanour, he could sense the constant pain that she hid from  
the concerned eyes of the family.  
  
Only he knew the real reason for his mother's current state. The   
powers of the Dark, thinking to entrap both his sister Mary and   
himself, had created a ear-splitting and wholly unexpected clap of   
thunder--perfectly timed to his mother's arrival at the top of the   
long flight of stairs. One more problem to consider, one more   
distraction that had threatened to turn his mind from thoughts other   
than that of preventing the Dark from rising.   
  
Now, after all the affairs of the Light had been taken care of--the   
Signs joined, the Circle gathered, Merriman returned back through the   
Doors to some time unknown--the only thing left for Will to think   
about was his family. The ageless Old One had retreated into the   
background, replaced by the scared, lonely eleven-year-old boy. All   
he wanted to do was see his mother, to reassure himself that she   
really was all right--  
  
The clock struck two.   
  
Will, startled, missed the last step from the bottom and stumbled   
forward. Cursing silently at his clumsiness, he scrambled to his  
feet.  
  
"Who's there?" he heard his mother call out.  
  
He peered around the corner, staring into the family room. The rugs  
were still soggy from the great deluge of floodwaters that had swept   
through their home a day ago, but the big sofa was high and dry. On   
it sat his mother, wrapped in so many quilts and blankets that she   
looked like a caterpillar in a multi-coloured chrysalis.  
  
"Will?" she whispered, catching sight of his tousled head. "It's   
late...what are you doing up?"  
  
"I...I...." Words failed him.  
  
Mrs. Stanton sat up, wincing a little as she arranged the blankets   
over her legs. "Is something wrong, Will? Come here."  
  
Everything was wrong, and he couldn't explain why. His legs   
automatically carried him forward, stopping in front of the sofa.   
Standing in front of her, he was struck by an intense feeling of   
loneliness--this wasn't something his mother, or anyone, could help   
him with. But if he didn't say something, he was certain he would   
go mad under the strain.   
  
There was only one way he could talk to her, make her understand.   
There was only one way she could help him.  
  
"Mum...I...I had a bad dream."  
  
He saw her face soften, pity and compassion mingling in a comforting   
smile. She opened her arms, and he climbed onto the sofa, leaning   
his head against her chest. The thick woolen blanket was warm and   
soft against his cheek, and he pressed closer to her.  
  
"Tell me about it," she said softly, wrapping her arms around him.  
  
"I don't remember all of it," he mumbled, the lie sinking like a   
stone in his heart.   
  
"Then tell me what you can."  
  
Will shuddered with the memory. Flashes of it came back unbidden,   
so vivid that it was as if he was reliving the horrible experience.   
"It was so cold, and windy, and dark outside. I was standing in the  
snow, and there was a old man in a bright green coat on the ground.  
He was lying there, lying in the snow...and I knew he had fallen.  
Fallen from...from a great height, and landed in the snow. His back  
was broken."  
  
Mrs. Stanton stroked his hair, but said nothing. She was waiting for   
him to continue.  
  
"I wanted to help him, but I couldn't do anything. He looked up at   
me and said something, and then his eyes...his eyes...." His throat   
closed, hot and swollen, and he couldn't continue.  
  
"It's all right, Will. I'm here." Her voice seemed to come from  
very far away.  
  
Will had to swallow several times to clear his throat before he   
could speak again. When he did, the quiet despair in his voice   
frightened him. "He faded away. I can't describe it, but...it was   
like watching a candle being blown out. Like watching a fire go out,  
cold and dead. The light went away deep in his eyes, and he was   
gone. There was nothing left. Just a shell--an empty, dead, cold   
shell that used to be a man, a human being. And I watched him die.   
I let him die."  
  
"Shhh," Mrs. Stanton said, trying to calm him down and keep the  
her voice steady at the same time. "Shhh, Will. It's all right.  
It wasn't your fault."  
  
Abruptly, Will's entire body stiffened, and his head snapped up,  
staring at his alarmed mother with eyes that burned, furious and  
fevered. "It *was* my fault!" he cried. "I watched him die right   
in front of me, and I...I...I couldn't *help* it...."  
  
His face crumpled, the terrible rage dissolving as hot tears ran down  
his cheeks. He buried his face in the blanket and wept--great,  
heaving, shaking sobs that threatened to tear his body apart.  
  
Mrs. Stanton stroked the trembling back, murmured soothing nonsense  
sounds into unhearing ears, and held her child close to her. He  
cried for what seemed like hours, fighting a sick, helpless internal   
struggle against demons that only he knew. All she could do was hold  
him, press him close to her body, and rock him back and forth.   
  
Only gradually did the sobs dwindle to silent tears, which then   
slowed down and eventually stopped. His breathing evened out and  
grew deeper. His tense body relaxed, though his white hands still  
clutched the blanket tightly. Finally, he slept.   
  
But even as the night faded and the faint light of dawn began to  
grow, Mrs. Stanton stayed awake and upright on the couch, her arms  
cradling the sleeping boy. Her normally mild and genial face was  
firmly set, as hard and unforgiving as stone. The dull pain in her  
leg had been forgotten long ago.   
  
The only thought in her mind was to protect her youngest son while he  
slept...to keep the silent watch against the terror and the fear that  
had come with the dark.  
  
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Gramarye  
gramarye@mailandnews.com  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
December 24th, 2001 


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